


Open the Door

by Lunasong365, sous_le_saule



Series: One step at a time [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety, Declaration of Love, Emotionally Repressed, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 23:32:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8773792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/pseuds/sous_le_saule
Summary: “A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.” It seems so simple. Is it really that easy: to love and accept that someone loves you?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 日本語 available: [日本語訳：扉を開けて - Open the Door by sous_le_saule](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12993201) by [pinecrunch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinecrunch/pseuds/pinecrunch)
  * A translation of [Entrouvrir la porte](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8415406) by [sous_le_saule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/pseuds/sous_le_saule). 



> Translator's note: Sometimes a piece is so delicately sensitive and beautiful that one feels compelled to share it with a larger audience. I hope you enjoy this collaborative translation of sous_le_saule's original work _Entrouvrir la porte._
> 
> Author's note: Luna's too modest! She did all the job, with her usual talent and finesse. I feel honored that she offered to translate my fic, and it means a lot to me that she liked it. I'm very lucky and I want to thank her for all she does for me.

Something was different.

Something had undeniably changed, and that made Crowley nervous. He had no idea what he was eating. The interminable anecdote Aziraphale was relating was mere background noise. Crowley feigned attention by inserting a relevant “hmm” or nod of the head at the appropriate moments, but his focus was on trying to understand what was causing these queasy tremors.

The explanation had to be related to what had happened the day before. Opposing an Apocalypse and narrowly escaping certain death constituted valid reasons to be shaken. And he wasn’t sure he trusted the promises of an eleven-year old.  But what he was feeling now was nothing like the fear that had kept him up all night - that of forcibly being returned to Hell to be held accountable for his actions.

He was certain the strange sensation had started shortly after their arrival at the restaurant. He discreetly glanced around. He’d been here with Aziraphale before. The Ritz was as familiar as ever. There was nothing here to make him uncomfortable. He took a sip of wine, hoping it would relax him.

Over the brim of his glass, Crowley noticed that the angel had stopped speaking, perhaps some time before, and was now staring at him. He looked concerned, his head tilted just a little bit to one side. The demon’s stomach clenched.

_It was_ _Aziraphale_. He hadn’t expected that.

“Crowley, dear, are you okay?”

Even the way  he’d said ‘Crowley, dear’ sounded different.

“Of course. Why?” responded the demon as casually as he could.

He grabbed the wine bottle and refilled both their glasses, then pretended to eat with gusto. The angel considered him for a moment, then  hesitantly continued unwinding his story.

This was ridiculous. Aziraphale was exactly the same. It would be difficult to be more immutable. He had not changed his looks for at least fifty years. Crowley sometimes wondered if that was because the angel knew he found it reassuring. The timeless bookshop, with the same volumes in the same places, had always been a sanctuary, but now… Aziraphale had confirmed that everything was exactly as before; only the titles had changed.  Crowley should be able to adapt, given a little time. He thought gratefully about the Bentley. It was  _ exactly _ the same, right down to the chrome.

Change was  an antidote to boredom – and humans never failed to provide him with new and exciting diversions – but Crowley also found comfort in clinging to constants. Cities rose and fell, languages took hold and disappeared, people were born and died. Yet Crowley remained. At times it seemed overwhelming. The world was changing so fast. Or maybe he’d been on Earth too long.

Aziraphale was always there; a steady, reassuring presence.

He covertly observed the angel. Crowley was suddenly aware of a multitude of small details he hadn’t previously noticed in all their centuries together. The delicate way that Aziraphale held a fork. The slight smile that sometimes revealed the train of his thoughts. The inflections of his voice.

Yesterday, just like Crowley, all this should have disappeared from the face of the earth. Yet here was Aziraphale, sitting opposite him, just like so many times before. The demon cherished these odd idiosyncrasies to which he hadn’t given a second thought the day before. 

He fought against the painful euphoria that swelled in his chest. This was _wrong. This_ was the change that had occurred.  No, not a change, but an awakening; a flood of emotions gushing from a centuries-dry source. 

He was not prepared. He was terrified.

He’d had time to think the previous night. Too much time and too much thinking. One of the conclusions reached was that he’d acknowledged to himself that Aziraphale was more than just an acquaintance. It had taken six thousand years, a bookshop in flames and the prospect of fighting a losing battle at the angel’s side before Crowley had dared to think of him as a ‘friend.’ To be sure, Aziraphale had never called Crowley ‘friend,’ but the demon was hoping that’s what ‘my dear’ meant.  That he meant more to Aziraphale than ‘the being  who’s been here since the beginning and, for lack of better options, whose company is tolerable.’ The phrase the angel had used yesterday as he stretched out his hand, about the ‘spark,’ surely it meant something...?

Friendship was already more than  he’d dared to hope for. This new and sudden feeling of love was overwhelming. It was senseless to presume the angel might feel likewise. And Crowley knew all too well that the higher one’s hopes, the harder the fall.

Aziraphale regarded him with knowing eyes. If Crowley had needed further proof, the way his heart jumped confirmed he was screwed. Hopelessly ensnared. The blue eyes turned serious. If the angel could perceive the love of humans, could he also perceive a demon’s? Aziraphale took a breath and opened his mouth. Crowley panicked.

“Excuse me a minute.”

Crowley quietly pushed his chair back and slowly rose.  It was all he could do to walk with a measured pace toward the loo. Once he was out of Aziraphale’s sight, he veered toward the lobby and left the restaurant with hurried strides, heading toward the Bentley.

 

§§§§§

 

Upon returning home, Crowley locked the door, turned off the mobile that had rung three times during the drive (resisting the temptation to listen to Aziraphale’s messages), and disconnected his landline and answering machine.

He wandered around his apartment for a bit, looking in vain for something to do. He’d already alphabetized and categorized everything, including the contents of his fridge. Only his plants remained. He took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and began caring for the agapanthus. Taking care of plants was easy. They never asked for more than what he was capable of giving. In this little Eden, everything was under control. And when, upon rare occasion, a bothersome or stubborn resident threatened Crowley’s carefully maintained perfection, the problem was easily contained.

Three hours later, as he finished with the zinnias, he’d finally regained his composure. As much as possible, at any rate. He went to bed. Sleep always offered a welcome oblivion.

He’d only been asleep a few minutes when someone knocked at the door. 

 

§§§§§

 

It was not the kind of message someone would leave on an answering machine or shout through a closed door. Aziraphale insisted, “Crowley, please let me in.”

The demon tiptoed to the entryway. He stopped a safe distance from the door.

The angel resisted the urge to pound on the door.

“I know you’re there. I need to talk to you.”

The demon slid soundlessly down the wall. Sitting down, he wrapped his knees in his arms.

“Crowley. I…“ Aziraphale’s voice was a whisper, inaudible from inside the apartment. “I hope you are okay.”

He remained a long time with his palm resting against the door. Finally, he sighed and left. Perhaps Crowley just needed a little time.

After an hour, the demon stopped staring blankly at the door. Painfully, as if at the conclusion of a grueling fight, he got up off the floor and retreated under the covers of his bed.

 

§§§§§

 

Two days. Aziraphale could endure no longer before once again facing the door that stubbornly refused to open. He could have unlocked it with a gesture, but he declined to use his powers. Crowley either didn’t want to see him, or wasn’t ready to do so. He had to respect that. Forcing entry would only make things worse.

As his raincoat shed droplets of warm summer rain, Aziraphale pulled a cream-colored envelope from the inside pocket and slipped it under the door. He had weighed his words carefully,  wanting to remove any overly sentimental language that might risk alarming Crowley. He hoped he had not erred. 

Crowley waited until Aziraphale’s steps had receded down the corridor before retrieving the envelope. He turned it over and over in his hands before opening it. 

 

_ Dearest Crowley, _

_ I wish I could tell you this in person, as I was about to do when you suddenly disappeared from the restaurant. I know what you are feeling. I perceived it, just as you suspected, and perhaps this is what motivated your departure. I’m very sorry that I always thought you couldn’t. I am an idiot. I should have known better. I hope you can forgive me. _

_ But if I know, it’s mainly because I feel the same. I regret that it took almost losing you for me to realize what you mean to me. _

_ I want us to talk about it. I need to see you. I beg you, come to the bookshop, open your door, or at least, pick up your phone. I miss you. _

_ Aziraphale _

 

When the demon finished the letter, he read it again. And again. A feeling of euphoria filled his being, but he immediately crushed it. It could not possibly be true. It was like the cruelest joke ever, and at his expense. There was nothing about him that Aziraphale could love. If he allowed himself to believe otherwise, sooner or later someone would laugh in his face and ask him how he could have dared to think it possible.

The rational part of him whispered that Aziraphale would never do that to him, that the angel had no reason to lie to him; but this small voice was overwhelmed by the conviction that he would not fall prey to such disillusionment.

 

§§§§§

 

A knock on the door. Again. How long since the last time? Would Aziraphale ever get tired of trying?

Crowley froze in the living room, waiting. On other occasions, the angel had eventually given up. But today he seemed determined.

“Crowley!” he called loudly from the other side of the door. “I know you can hear me, so listen. Why do you think I wanted to save the world? Do you think you convinced me with sushi restaurants and concerts at the Albert Hall? Well, maybe just a little. I’ll admit you know me well. But while you were making your little speech, I was thinking. These are the places we’d gone together, and if the earth was destroyed, I’d also lose my only friend. I’m telling you now: I did not defy my superiors, oppose the Apocalypse, and prepare to fight Satan himself just to lose you anyway. If what I feel for you is upsetting to you…“ his voice broke, but he immediately recovered and continued, “…I won’t speak of it again. I promise you everything will be as it was before. But. Please. Open. This. Blessed…”

With a click, the door swung open. There was no one there. Aziraphale ventured inside the apartment.

Crowley was standing with his back to him in front of the large bay  window. He was front-lit by the harsh afternoon light, starkly contrasted  against the security of shadow.  The angel approached to stand at his side, and gave him a sideways glance. He was unable to discern the demon’s expression behind his sunglasses. But with his features drawn and his jaw clenched, Crowley seemed a nervous wreck.

His hands circumspectly folded behind his back, the angel said tentatively,  “You owe me a dinner at the Ritz. And I would appreciate it if you could stay until dessert.”

Crowley did not react, as if he were absorbed in contemplating the bustling city below. Aziraphale asked softly, “Is this what you want? To pretend nothing has changed?”

The demon hesitated. Routine. Comfort. Habit.  He was tempted to torpedo his minuscule hope now to avoid the inevitable future cataclysmic explosion of disappointment and despair.

“You can’t possibly…” he began in a low voice. He left the sentence unfinished.

“I can’t possibly what? Love you?”

Crowley nodded.

“That’s not for you to judge. It’s not your choice,” replied the angel evenly. After a few seconds, he added, “Is that the problem?”

Crowley thought for a moment.

“Perhaps. In part.”

“It doesn’t work that way. What value would my feelings have if you could control them?”

A lengthy silence followed.

“You know,” said Aziraphale, “it’s not going to make that much of a difference. Our relationship has been evolving for six millennia. This is just another step.”

“You always make everything sound so easy,” Crowley said softly. “I wish it were. But I am a demon.” 

“I am vaguely aware of that, yes.”

“You don’t understand.” Crowley searched for words. “The Fall, it cuts away parts of yourself. There are things that  you want to feel and you want to express, but  it’s as if there’s a wall blocking the way.”

“There have always been cracks in your wall. And now it seems there  is what one would call a breach.”

“It doesn’t mean the wall has fallen.”

“I know. Let me help you. Bit by bit.”

“And if…?”

“You will always be good enough for me.”

After a pause that seemed interminable, the demon murmured:

“I guess I can… try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Crowley finally turned toward Aziraphale.

“Do you mind?” the angel asked gently.

The demon reluctantly removed his sunglasses. He held Aziraphale’s gaze for a moment before looking away. He looked so vulnerable that Aziraphale could not help but hug him. Crowley stiffened, fighting against the urge to free himself from the arms that surrounded him. The angel stepped away, stammering, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to… “

Crowley smiled sadly.

“There’s that, too. I’m not very comfortable with…“ He made a vague gesture and a look of apology. “Are you sure you want…? Do you think you can…?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale quietly affirmed.

  
  


After a brief moment, Aziraphale manifested his wings. Carefully gauging the reaction of his friend, he  encircled them gently around them, ensuring that the feathers only lightly grazed Crowley’s back and shoulders without making him feel trapped.

“Is this okay?” he whispered.

The demon blinked in assent.

Inside this cocoon of filtered light, it was as warm as the garden of Eden and as silent as a snowy day in London. Aziraphale’s wings were fragrant with the crackle of ancient papers and the fresh smell of baking. It was a welcoming aroma, reminiscent of returning home to a place one couldn’t quite remember.

Crowley closed his eyes and breathed it in. He could feel all the love with which Aziraphale enveloped him. The angel looked at his peaceful face and, smiling, closed his eyes in turn.

The light diffused into shades of orange. There was no need to rush things. They had all the time in the world now that Crowley had opened the door.


End file.
